


Blood

by diminishedmercury



Series: Mercury One Shots [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Dark Imagery, Graphic Imagery, do not open this if you can’t deal with that, i mean it’s been VERY disturbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 20:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15348153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diminishedmercury/pseuds/diminishedmercury
Summary: “He loves him, he loves him, he loves him. And he was retching just at the thought of it. He couldn't escape him, even if he was dead, there was no way for him to erase the feeling of his hands on him. There was nothing that could make him forget what it felt like to have his father push inside of his body with no preparation, no lubricant, no nothing.”





	Blood

**Author's Note:**

> ANOTHER WARNING: This will contain imagery not for the faint of heart. If you’ve read my story “Use Me” about Mercury, this is a step up from that one. You have been warned and I have put up the appropriate tags.

**{I hate you for the sacrifices you made for me**  
I hate you for every time you ever bled for me}  
  
        His father wasn't an inattentive one. That was the thing that Mercury resented the most about him. He wasn't a  _bad_ father, not when he wasn't abusing and bruising him. No. Marcus provided for him, keep food on the table, listened to him whenever he cried. Marcus was not a bad father. He was abusive, he used him, but Mercury could never bring himself to truly resent his father. He kept him warm, worked his ass off to bring home money, and kept his belly full. How could he resent that? He hated all that his father had done to make him love him.  
        He still sees his smile in his mind when he drifts back to his early days. His father had loved him, once upon a time, but somewhere that love had gotten twisted and warped into something ugly. He could see the kind eyes and the soft, encouraging words when he struggled with his reading. He could hear his laughter ringing in his ears, could hear the way he said "Little One" without any malice. Yes.  
        He could feel touches and caresses that he'd once thought were loving and tender. A hand on his thigh here, a hand rubbing circles on his back there. He knew what those had been now, but they were the only memories of Marcus that didn't end in a mess splashed across his chest or his face, that didn't end with his jaw aching and his throat whining in protest. He chose to cling to those memories. They were easier to think about. They were easier to think back on and smile (—nothing was ever really _easy_ to smile about anymore, not after what Marcus had done to him).  
        He hates his father. He does. He recites these words to himself everyday, to remind him that he  _can't_ love someone that would hurt him so much.  
  
**{I hate you for always pulling me back from the edge**  
I hate you for every kind word you ever said}  
  
        He had tried to escape. He had lost count by the time he'd hit four. He wasn't just referring to his home; he'd tried to escape his life. There were too many things that he didn't want to deal with, too many things that he saw daily that he didn't want to deal with. Some days, the touches that his father left on his body were almost kind. And some days, the way that Marcus fucked his mouth was almost loving. Those days were easier than others. He hated those days the most. The days that his father would put a soothing balm over his hurting soul. Those days, he realized, were the same ones that he decided he was going to end it all, that if his father was just going to continue using and abusing him, he didn't want to live. But then, Marcus would pet his hair, tell him that he was proud of his son, smile at him as if he were actually worth something. And then Mercury would be tricked. Tricked into thinking that his father  _cared_ , tricked into thinking that life would get  _easier_ , tricked into thinking that it wouldn't  _always_ be this way.  
        But he was angry. Angry at himself and angry at Marcus (—anger,  _anger, **anger**_ ). It burned low in his belly and bloomed bright behind his eyes. He  _hated_ Marcus and nothing would change that (—but you love him, you love him so very much, you needed him, you  _still_ need him). He was shaking his head now, the thoughts still insistent with a certain vengeance. He hated himself, he thought, just as much as he hated Marcus.  
  
**{I love you for everything you ever took from me**  
I love the way you dominate and you violate me}  
          
        He tasted blood on his tongue, staring quietly at himself in the mirror. He was disgusted at what he saw; a little boy that still loved his father, a little boy that still  _wanted_ his father. The first punch sent a sharp pang of pain up his arm. The second broke skin. He wanted the thoughts gone, gone, gone, and the pain that shot up his arm each time he smacked his knuckles into the wall was a good distraction.  
        But it didn't last long. He was overcome with his grief, curling over the sink, brought back to those years spent in that quiet home. Marcus had been sure to take  _everything_ from Mercury, and being so young, so naive, he had loved him for it. When he'd come into his room and touched him for the first time, he had been told that it was just something that he and his boy would share. He had been told that it was a secret they'd keep between them. He had been told that Marcus  _loved_ him and that was why he was doing this. He almost still believed it, as sick as it was.  
        And he'd come to enjoy it. He'd come to  _crave_ the pain that smarted on his cheek from a hard slap to his face, come to crave the crack of his belt on his back, come to crave the salty taste on his tongue, come to crave the taste of blood from a kiss too harsh. He craved it all, was trained to rely on the punishment, and he was disgusted to find that he still liked it.  
        He loves him, _he loves him_ , _**he loves him**_. And he was retching just at the thought of it. He couldn't escape him, even if he was dead, there was no way for him to erase the feeling of his hands on him. There was  _nothing_ that could make him forget what it felt like to have his father push inside of his body with no preparation, no lubricant, no nothing. He would forever have the feeling his father's  _cock_ (he shuddered just thinking about it) burned into his body. No matter what he did, no matter who he did it with, he could still remember how it felt for him to push in and out of his body, could still remember the way that the push got easier as his own  _ **blood**_ made the slide into his body that much more slick. He was swallowing thickly now, as he heard his screams of pain in his own ears. Marcus hadn't liked that. Had brought down his belt on his back.  
        He pushed away the nightmare (—memory, whispered a traitorous part of him, that was a memory and he had to live with that) with a gulp of air, his eyes coming back into view in the mirror. The sound of glass breaking met his ears. Blood ran down his fingers and the back of his hand, pieces of the mirror caught there.  
        There was mud pumping through his blood, he was tainted, he would never be good enough.  
        But at least  _he_ was alive. Marcus couldn't take  _that_ from him, too.


End file.
